I sit in my recliner — much as he
would have — with his feet
at the end of my legs.
But, we don’t talk.
I see genetics at work when I’m tired
and rub my eyes
with the heel of my hand .
But, we don’t talk.
I have heard the anger of his voice
directed at my children,
but coming from my mouth,
But, we don’t talk.
I have learned through observation
the art of bitterness
and long held grudges.
We don’t talk.
It is hard when we know the worst bits of ourselves, but are unable to change.
I scold my other self whenever necessary as guilt is a burden I don’t want to carry.
Kind regards
Anna :o]